


All In A Day's Work

by Unforth



Category: Oathtakers series - Nina Waters
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Yermolai, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bottom Gregory, Dancer Yermolai, Dom Yermolai, Dubious Consent, Inadequate Aftercare, M/M, No Aftercare, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Physical Therapist Gregory, Sex Toys, Spit As Lube, Sub Gregory, Top Yermolai, Under-negotiated Kink, Voyeurism, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: After a series of terrible life choices, Yermolai Praskovya is finally out of the hospital and ready to begin rehabilitation after losing a leg during a hiking accident. All he wants is to get back on his feet, get a prosthetic and get on with his life. He wasn't counting on falling hard for his physical therapist, and he definitely wasn't expecting to make even more terrible life choices...*There is off-screen rape in this story - not Yermolai/Gregory**The watersports happens during a scene but isn't sexual per se*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap it's been a month since I posted anything? Ugh, sorry everyone. I've been insanely busy - I wrote the first draft of my Supernatural Megabang story, which is a 100,000 word plus story that will be coming out in July, and I also self-published my first original novel, called A Glimmer of Hope. And that's where this story comes in!
> 
> See, before I ever wrote any Destiel, I wrote the beginning of this - yes, it's a BDSM AU of my own original work. So if you're looking at this and wondering wtf Oathtakers is and who the hell these people are...these are my characters. I'm writing a trilogy about them - first two books already written - and this was me playing with those characters. This was started about a month before I wrote and posted the first story of the I Dream of Deanie story. And this story DOES have spoilers for the first book, despite being an AU, so if you want to read it I recommend that you read that first.
> 
> Advertising on AO3 is forbidden, so I cannot say where you can get A Glimmer of Hope, first book of the Oathtakers series, or provide links. My penname is Nina Waters, though, and the book is available as an e-book, so if you're reading this and you're curious...check it out! I'd strongly suggest reading the book before trying to read this fic...
> 
> THIS STORY IS PROBLEMATIC. Hands down, no claims otherwise. The kink is massively undernegotiated, there's minimal aftercare, there is hard, uncontestable non-con (not Yermolai on Gregory...that's just dub-con), and Gregory's backstory is, well, think Yermolai's backstory in AGoH and you'll have some idea.
> 
> But I've been waiting to share this almost as long as I've been waiting to share AGoH, so...here goes!! <3
> 
> (allrealities, this is getting posted now *entirely* because you finished the book, so...yeah...I hope you like it? lol...)

“So, are you ready to meet your physical therapist?” asked Dr. Gajos. The dark haired, squat doctor had a calm, professional air that Yermolai found simultaneously reassuring and annoying. The doctor had wasted an hour on a physical to establish what Yermolai’s regular care physicians had already told him a week ago – that he was finally recovered enough from his injuries to begin physical therapy.

Yermolai shrugged and nodded by way of reply. His voice still sounded odd to his ears, coarser than it used to be, his Russian accent thicker. A decade of work to reduce the Slavic roll to his words, lost thanks to three days in the wild, ruining his throat screaming for help and talking to thin air to keep from losing his mind.

At least he was alive.

Usually, he thought his present condition better than the alternative, but he hated the way his voice sounded now, and spoke as little as he could get away with.

Standing up was a multi-step process. Hands on the armrests of his chair, he leveraged himself upright, balancing precariously on his left leg. Turning, he let the doctor’s blocky desk support much of his weight as he took his crutches and positioned them under his armpits. He’d been on his feet…his foot, he thought with a scowl…for a week, which meant that his shoulders no longer ached from the previous day’s strain when he woke up every morning. It took several tries before he had the crutches placed such that they were both comfortable and at a good angle for supporting him. As he went to take his first step, the stump of his right leg hitched, as if his brain didn’t understand that there was no leg there. A stab of pain that could never be soothed emphasized the futility of his action. It was incomprehensible to him that a limb that wasn’t there could hurt so fucking much, so often, yet it did.

Scowl deepening, Yermolai followed Dr. Gajos. He had mixed feelings about starting physical therapy. It was going to be a lot of work and, as every doctor he’d spoken to had reminded him, recovery would be hard and extremely slow. If he kept at it, stuck to a diet, kept his weight down, did his exercises at home, blah blah blah, he’d be mobile again.

Eventually.

Probably.

Meanwhile, for three hours a week some perky woman with a bobbing pony tail would fill his head with “fitsperation,” or some jock reject would try to relate to Yermolai by reminiscing about fraternities and talking about all the parties he’d been to. Yermolai’s college experience had been about as far from that as it was possible to be. Hard physical work, endless repetition, pushing for days at the same movements until they finally became automatic, all of that was familiar and unintimidating to Yermolai. However, never in his cruelest nightmares had he imagined he might ever need to drill like that simply to be able to walk.

On the gym floor, Yermolai saw nothing to reassure him. Equipment was separated into different stations, based on what types of injuries it helped rehabilitate, which muscle groups it worked, and who-knew-what-other-requirements. At many of the stations, physical therapists in black gym pants and fitted black shirts stood with clipboards watching patients, or adjusted limb and body positions, or offered support. The patients were of all ages and sizes, male and female, with many types of injuries, not all of which were identifiable by sight. All of the therapists were in the exact mold he’d envisioned.

This was going to be a fucking chore.

But if Yermolai could get through it, he’d be able to walk, not need a wheel chair, not require crutches. He wanted his independence back. He’d been stupid enough to fuck his body up, now he had no choice but to pay the price for his own idiotic behavior.

“Mr. Berezin, you will be working with Mr. Adalwin,” Dr. Gajos said, drawing Yermolai’s attention from his scan of the gym.

“Gregory,” said the man with a bright smile. Gregory was about as far from a jock reject as Yermolai could imagine. He looked more like a Viking, a warrior incongruously clad in the garb of a more civilized age. Yermolai thought the man maybe a decade older than himself – mid 30s, judging by his skin and build – and he was in flawless physical condition. Wide shoulders, heavily muscled arms, shirt taut over firm breasts and hanging loose over a flat belly, elastic-banded sweat pants catching on strong hips and falling straight to the ground, save for a slight bulge at the crotch. Blonde hair fell across Gregory’s shoulders as if he’d forgotten to get a haircut for a year, and piercing blue eyes stared out of his bluff yet handsome face. A scar cut jaggedly from above his right ear down to above the upturned corner of his mouth, and another made a faint white line across his forehead. Gregory held out a hand for Yermolai to shake. Momentarily stunned, Yermolai blinked, unsure what he was supposed to do. He was holding crutches, for fucks sake, how was he supposed to shake someone’s hand? He wanted to, though, wanted to see if Gregory’s grim grip was as strong as the cording on his arms suggested. There was a challenge in Gregory’s eyes when he saw Yermolai’s surprise. Of course Yermolai could fucking shake hands! Leaning onto the left crutch, he tucked the right firmly under his shoulder and reached out. The grip was firm and confident, matching Gregory’s relaxed posture and unprepossessing good looks. A tingle ran up Yermolai’s arm, and a warm feeling settled in his gut.

An ex-cheer leader or former frat boy would have been a much better option. Gregory was _dangerous_.

“Yermolai Berezin,” Yermolai said, licking his lips to work some moisture back into his mouth.

There was nothing to think about. Gregory was his doctor, and straight. Yermolai made the blanket assumption that everyone he met was straight; it was safer that way. If he proved to be wrong, it was a pleasant surprise. Anyway, the last thing he needed now was another relationship, especially after how disastrously his last had ended.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Berezin,” Gregory said, upbeat tone somehow completely reasonable in his low, gruff voice. “Ready to get started?”

At Yermolai’s nod, Gregory explained how the early days of the process would go. This week’s three appointments would be devoted to assessment and learning basic exercises that Yermolai would have to do every day at home – stretches, core strengthening, balance. To say that they had a conversation would be inaccurate. Gregory talked a great deal, a steady stream of information, ideas, suggestions, and encouragement. Yermolai answered monosyllabically, when he answered at all. His only goal was to be able to walk again. That was as far ahead as he let himself think. With a single night of poor decisions, he’d lost his relationship, his health, and his livelihood. At least the Company had let him hold on to his insurance through the calendar year. In fact, they hadn’t technically fired him yet, but it was only a matter of time. With only one leg, he was never going to dance again, which made him entirely superfluous. Even if they found a pity position for him, it would only remind Yermolai of what he had lost.

The assessment started uninterestingly. Gregory guided Yermolai through a series of weight machines, seeing how much Yermolai could lift, curl, and bench, checking each muscle group for both Yermolai’s maximum and what he could comfortably do for ten reps, all while Gregory made notes on his clipboard. After that, they went to a set of a parallel bars, and Gregory took the crutches away. Taking the bars, Yermolai used upper body strength and balance to navigate down the corridor the bars made, Gregory waiting for him at the far end spewing constant advice and encouragement. It was harder than Yermolai had expected, but he got to the end, and turned to go back. Only, as he did, his stump lifted, his mind thought, _of course I can step like this_ , and he instinctually shifted his weight onto a limb that didn’t exist. Falling, his mind flooded with hopeless thoughts in an instant. He was going to slam his only knee into the ground, he was going to jam his chin on the bars, he was going to hurt himself again, he was going to spend two more fucking months in the hospital. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the inevitable.

Strong arms caught Yermolai, professional and impersonal, a hand flat on his stomach, another under his left arm, a warm body flush against his back.

“Easy, now,” Gregory said soothingly. “Take your time. I’ve got you for as long as you need to get your balance back. Just let me know when you’re ready.” The heat in Yermolai’s gut coursed through his blood, and with mortification he realized that any moment he was going to add an erection to his list of current problems. Yermolai opened his eyes and determinedly set his hands on the bar, getting his left leg planted beneath him again. Gregory shifted around to his front.

“Gym Rule number 1. This is the most important thing you need to know about your time here, Mr. Berezin. As long as I am working with you, I will never let you fall. So, whatever you do, do it with confidence, and trust that I’m there to catch you, because I always will be. Got it?” Gregory’s smile was a misdemeanor, at least. Possibly a felony. Starting back down the parallel beams, Yermolai vowed to himself that he would never fall. The temptation to do so intentionally and feel those arms on him again was too alluring.

“Call me Yermolai,” he said hoarsely, breathing hard and grimacing at the enthusiastic, handsome trainer.

“You’re doing fantastic, Yermolai,” said Gregory, gorgeous blue eyes meeting Yermolai’s. “We’ll have you walking on a prosthetic before you know it.”


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time since he’d gotten hurt, Yermolai wished his recovery would go slower. His three sessions of physical rehab were the highlight of his week. Not that he had much going on. He’d returned to his apartment after his time in the hospital to find his phone, cable, internet and power shut off, his things covered in a thick coat of dust, and empty spots on the floor and discolored places on the walls where Yevgeniy’s things had been. Yermolai spent a few hours each day listlessly searching through job listings for something that he was qualified for, writing cover letters where he pretended that data entry was everything he’d aspired to do his entire life. Dancing was what he’d aspired to do, and he’d _been_ doing it until he’d fucked everything up. More of his time went towards the exercises that he’d been given, which despite his desire to prolong his rehabilitation – _you just want to spend more time with Gregory_ , his rebellious thoughts filled in the truth – he did assiduously. It was impossible for him not to apply the same level of diligence to this workout as he’d applied to learning new steps or drilling a new routine.

There was little else to fill his days, and sheer boredom found him using skills that he hadn’t bothered to hone since his family had come to the United States. In Russia, he’d been told he’d never be a dancer – he was too tall, too lanky, too awkward. He’d never learn the grace necessary to be a true wonder on the floor, he’d never have the balance for ballet – there’d always been a reason he would fail, why he wasn’t worth the effort of training. Frustration had first driven him to computers, and increasing familiarity with their nuances had offered a solution to his problem. In America, dance companies were more open to people with different body types. There would be places where his six and a half feet would be considered an asset, instead of making an undesirable contrast with the shorter performers. His parents had always talked about moving, they’d simply lacked the means. Things had never really gone their way. They never made quite enough money. They never moved up the waiting list for a visa. With the right tweaks, he solved those issues without anyone noticing. It took him several years to do so, subtly, refining his abilities as a hacker. Once it worked, and got him where he wanted to be, there hadn’t been any need to continue. He didn’t need to cheat his way into a life as a performer, he was good enough to get there through diligence, and he did.

Lacking other ways to kill the endless hours, he turned back to those skills. Nearly ten years had left him rusty and seen a lot of changes to security technology, so he started doing basic things.

Leech his neighbor’s wireless: simple.

Backtrack from the coffee shop’s free, unpassworded system into the computers of the people using it: embarrassingly easy.

Bump up the position of his resume in the queue at the data entry company: so pathetically uncomplicated that he thought he’d turn down a job if it was offered, because no one should have such a substandard security system.

So passed the first two months of physical therapy.

His dinner was busily cooking, and he was fed up enough of hobbling around his apartment on crutches that he was wheeling himself around in his computer chair instead. Hunger gnawed at his stomach – his body still hadn’t figured out that he no longer needed to eat enough to fuel ten hours of dancing a day – and boredom threatened to drown him, as it did most nights. If only he had some company for his evenings. Not a boyfriend, not after what Yevgeny had done to him. Of course Yermolai was controlling, that had been the whole fucking point. Yevgeny had agreed to it, had enjoyed it, and not until the day he left had he suggested that things had needed to change. They could have talked it over and adjusted their arrangement at any point, but Yevgeny had to pull some passive aggressive “you should have known” bullshit on him.

No, Yermolai did _not_ want another boyfriend. Just someone to talk to and hang out with.

Gregory came to mind immediately. Yermolai repressed the temptation. Definitely not. The man was far too enticing. Yermolai would want him to be more than just a friend. Two months had done nothing to distract Yermolai from Gregory’s charms. Indeed, the fact that Gregory was one of the only people with whom Yermolai had regular interactions only made Yermolai’s desire worse. A few friends came by from time to time, but otherwise, he was on his own.

Turning to his computer, Yermolai began to type, poking at the computer system that ran the rehabilitation center. It wouldn’t be easy to break through their security. They stored medical records there, patient information, loads of insurance stuff, and so had good defenses. All of those areas proved to be beyond his current ability to hack. However, he did find a crack through which he could wiggle. It was wonderful irony, he thought, that the security systems for the security system were deficient.

A view of every camera in the building flashed on to Yermolai’s screen, and he switched the feed to his large second monitor. The gym closed at 5, and Yermolai thought that this was perhaps the most lame solution to boredom he had ever found. Why subscribe to Netflix if he could watch live and in-real-time footage of 12 cameras showing views of dark, empty rooms? Absolutely thrilling.

Yermolai frowned.

Not empty.

Someone sat at a desk in one corner of the main gym floor. Blonde hair fell haphazardly forward as the person leaned over a sheet of paper, and though the angle was terrible, and Yermolai tried to convince himself it could be any of the blonde bimbos he avoided, he knew it was Gregory. Unable to tear his eyes away despite the decidedly prosaic nature of what he watched, he waited until Gregory looked up, chewing the end of his pen thoughtfully. Seriously, smiling or otherwise, Gregory’s mouth was felonious. Gregory returned to his papers, writing quickly. Finally, he stood up, stretched breathtakingly, exposing several inches of puckered stomach and the chiseled curve of his hip bones, and went to the locker room.

The lights in the well-kept changing space and shower area flicked on at the first sign of movement, and Yermolai watched increasingly enthralled. With the thoughtless indifference of one who knows that they are the only person in a building, Gregory peeled off his shirt, revealing a firm chest with an almost imperceptible covering of curled blonde hairs, crisscrossed with so many scars that Yermolai’s shock almost overrode the desiring stirring in his groin.

Almost.

Reaching down, Yermolai palmed the beginnings of an erection to full-blown rock-hard ready-to-go hard-on. Gregory pulled his pants off, heavily muscled legs shaggy with more blonde hairs, thighs crossed with more scars, some narrow and only visible as paler lines against his tanned skin, others jagged like the one on his cheek, lighter, hairless skin growing where his flesh had gapped while healing. Next off were black boxer briefs, and Gregory stood completely naked and unaware.

 _Gorgeous fucking man_ , Yermolai thought, glad that no one was present to hear him bite back a groan.

Solid.

Strong.

Well-endowed.

A tinny, high-pitched sound came through Yermolai’s speakers as Gregory pursed his mouth and whistled a random melody, lips puckered in a way that set Yermolai thinking extremely dirty thoughts. He imagined Gregory on his knees before him, sucking him off, taking every inch of Yermolai into his mouth, drawing slowly, tortuously back out again, lapping at the tip of Yermolai’s penis as he dripped pre-cum, swallowing every bit of it, looking up at Yermolai through blonde lashes, blue eyes bright with desire and unfocused with need. As Gregory grabbed a towel from his locker and went to take a shower – the stalls were out of camera view, fucking damn decency bullshit, they weren’t fooling anyone, there were cameras in the locker rooms and the bathrooms for fuck’s sake – Yermolai unzipped his jeans and stroked himself vigorously. It had been a while since he’d been with anyone or even thought about sex, and he came embarrassingly quickly, breath hitching, whispering Gregory’s name as he massaged more come out of his slowly softening penis.

Blissfully indifferent to the interest he’d excited, Gregory emerged from the shower, got dressed and left as Yermolai cleaned up spurts of milky come with a tissue.

A charred smell assaulted Yermolai’s nose. His dinner was burning.

* * *

Voyeurism was a new low. Yermolai reprimanded himself every morning, yet every evening for weeks he returned to the security cameras. He learned Gregory’s evening ritual. At 5, everyone left except Gregory. He took all his files from the day and sat at the desk, reviewing them, adding notes. Sometimes, he’d go to a computer in the office and, based on what Yermolai could make out, print out workout ideas and append them to individual files. One of those workouts, Yermolai did the next day. Anywhere from thirty minutes to two entire hours were devoted to this task, at which point Gregory invariably went to the locker room, stripped, and showered, and Yermolai invariably masturbated. It had gotten the point that he hardened the minute Gregory started to rise from the desk, neatly stacking the files. Yermolai’s libido knew what was coming, his insides were tense and hot with the expectation of an erotic view and the accompanying release.

It had made actually seeing the man into a new type of trial. Every time Gregory touched Yermolai to adjust his position, every time the trainer smiled, every time he fucking turned in that way that drew his shirt taut over his body, every time his breath hit Yermolai as Gregory guided him through an exercise, every time Gregory caught him as he stumbled, Yermolai had to fight down arousal.

It was time to face facts. Yermolai might be just a little obsessed.

A particularly frustrating Wednesday saw Yermolai settling at the computer at his usual time, a few minutes to five, when he could watch everyone leave and enjoy the way every muscle in Gregory’s body relaxed when he didn’t have to wear a smiling public face any longer. Mask removed, Yermolai could see that Gregory was unhappy that night, brow furrowed, mouth set in a slight frown as he gathered his papers and sat down to work. Yermolai shared the sentiment. The weather had been terrible, and Yermolai had gotten soaked to the skin getting into and out of a cab. The dance company had called him three times and he hadn’t been able to muster the energy to answer the phone or listen to the messages they had left him. He’d sent a dozen more resumes into the abyss. An attempt to hack a check cashing store had nearly gotten his computer fried. Most annoyingly, physical therapy had been ghastly. There had been some sort of emergency, so Gregory had been pulled to work with a different patient while Yermolai did a session with Emily, a dark haired slip of a girl who kept trying to flirt with him and confirmed all of his worst fears about the alternatives that had faced him had he not been assigned to Gregory. The gym had been mobbed, the equipment unusually dirty, the bathroom smelled, and all in all a place he usually looked forward to going had become a prison for an hour, and Yermolai was damn bitter about it.

Yermolai wouldn’t have actually minded if Gregory flirted with him, but that would never happen. Gregory was a consummate professional. That was part of what Yermolai found so endearing in his unknown watchings (only in his most self-condemning moments did he allow the word “stalking” to cross his mind). The man that Yermolai saw when the lights started to flick off around the building, alone working on reports, whistling, and taking a shower, was the real person, not the sunny, optimistic, “you can do it!” fitness trainer, but a person who sighed and frowned and chewed his pen with concern and scratched his hair and adjusted his package. Yermolai longed to know that person, but the professional veneer seemed impenetrable.

Gregory worked listlessly, yawning from time to time.

An idea struck Yermolai. He could use the speaker system at the gym – it was tied into the security systems. With it, he could speak directly to Gregory, and the cameras and mics would pick up Gregory’s responses and transmit them to Yermolai.

Hands trembling, Yermolai typed the keystrokes to activate the PA system. Forcing his voice to steadiness, he spoke, low and soft and with as much of an American accent as he could muster, “You should clean the aerobic mats. They’re disgusting.”

Yermolai expected Gregory to jump, or exclaim. Yermolai expected Gregory to curse and look around wildly. Maybe, Yermolai thought doubtfully of the man covered in inexplicable scars, Gregory would even be frightened. But no. As a shocked Yermolai watched on, Gregory blinked his dazzling blue eyes, looked up from what he was doing, quirked his head to one side, shrugged and said, “Oh, okay. I’ll take care of it.” He promptly set his pen aside and left the room. Moments later, he returned with a bunch of rags balled up in one hand and a spray bottle in the other.

Over the next hour, as Yermolai watched with wonder and increasing desire, Gregory worked on his hands and knees and cleaned every mat in the gym. The muscles in his back bunched, flexing and contracting as he worked, his shirt belled out from his stomach to reveal inches of skin that hadn’t grown less tantalizing the more Yermolai saw of it, and his ass stuck up, bouncing and shifting in a way that had no right to be so erotic. Gregory was shockingly thorough, getting in to every fold, flipping the mats over, using every rag he had, going out and getting more. When he finished, he stood up, a little breathless, stretched and wiped sweaty strands of hair from his forehead. He’d scrubbed vigorously enough that there was a sheen of sweat on his face, and his eyes twinkled from the activity. Yermolai stared, barely controlling his breathing, using all his willpower not to jerk off on the spot.

The speakers were still on.

“You were right,” said Gregory to the air as if he had such conversations all the time. “They were gross. Are they better now?”

“Adequate,” sniffed Yermolai. “Barely.” He was positive the mats were immaculate.

 “Thank you,” said Gregory, offering the first genuine smile that Yermolai had ever seen on his face towards nothing at all. “Let me know if you see anything else that needs doing, okay?”

“I will,” promised Yermolai. He slammed at the keys to turn the PA system off. Taking a hold of himself, he panted with desperate need, pulling hard as he watched Gregory nonchalantly return to his desk and go back to his paperwork, except that his brooding look was gone. In its place, Gregory wore a secretive smile, and there was a slight spring to his step as if he hadn’t just spent an hour doing manual labor on all fours. Yermolai came before Gregory even made it to the locker room.

* * *

The next night, before he settled down at his work desk, Gregory gave all of the mats a quick cleaning, whistling to himself happily and smiling slightly.

It was the hottest thing that Yermolai had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I'm planning to edit this and get most of what's written posted. Then I might finish? But I've got enough to do, writing-wise, that might not just yet. I'm not sure. (I've had this whole story written in my head for years, though, so in theory I should be able to finish it up relatively quickly...)


	3. Chapter 3

Physical therapy on Friday was sweet torture. Yermolai was working on hopping exercises to strengthen his core and supporting leg and to improve his balance. Fine and dandy, except doing so involved standing and facing Gregory, holding both his hands, so that Gregory could give him extra support and balance. The whole time, Yermolai searched the man’s weathered, scarred face for any sign that Gregory realized who had spoken to him on Wednesday night, had any idea of the effect that he had on Yermolai. There wasn’t the least sign of it. Gregory’s work façade was firmly in place, the encouraging smile, the drawn back shoulders, his blonde hair pulled back into a tiny, bristling ponytail. Blue eyes blithely met brown, not a sign that he had the least clue. Yermolai wasn’t sure if he was relieved or frustrated. By the time they were done, he was exhausted physically, wrung out emotionally, and his hands felt cold now that no one was holding them in a possessive, supportive grip. It flickered through his mind that he needed a new physical therapist. This was getting unhealthy, perverted even by Yermolai’s loose standards, and it was up to him to behave like a responsible adult and put a stop to it.

The thought was easier to have than to act on. Even as good looking as he was – and Yermolai had no illusions that he was anything other than a damn pretty man – it wasn’t easy to find male company who shared his proclivities. With his doe eyes and thick, rumpled black hair, people made assumptions about him, that he was meek, that he was easy, that he was submissive, that he was a bottom. That was not what he wanted in a relationship. Yevgeniy had been the first man he’d been with long term who both understood and agreed to Yermolai’s conditions, to Yermolai’s domination. Losing Yevgeniy had hurt, and Yermolai’d had little chance to process their break up and get over it, considering that the same evening he’d gotten smashed and decided that a midnight hike would be a brilliant idea. A nasty fall and three days before he was found drove away all thoughts of being dumped. He’d been too afraid he would die to care that Yevgeniy had broken his heart.

Maybe Gregory was a rebound. That would explain a lot. It was still only five months since his injuries and rescue. Five months had seen a lot of changes to Yermolai: he’d lost his leg and two fingers, and nasty abrasions scored long, ugly scars down his back. He’s lost his job...with a sigh he realized he could no longer procrastinate seeing what the messages from the dance company were about. On the cab ride home from rehab, he listened to all five they had left him over the preceding week.

“Hi, Berezin, how are you doing?” The light, cheerful voice belied both the age and the expertise of the woman behind it. Even at 66, Lindy was one of the finest dancers that Yermolai had ever seen. Lindy’s dance company toured all over the United States, and only the best were chosen. “You ready to come in and talk about your status with us going forward? How would Monday work for you? Call me back and we can figure something out.”

“Berezin, I know this must be hard for you,” said the second message, Lindy’s voice more serious. “However, it doesn’t need to be the end of the world. Call me back.”

“I have your home address,” went the third. “I will use it.” Yermolai shuddered. Not an idle threat. She would show up and pound on his door until the neighbors called the cops, if she had to.

“Don’t be juvenile, Berezin,” said the fourth unsympathetically. “I thought better of you than this.”

The last simply said, “call me back.”

The taxi pulled up to the house, and he dialed Lindy’s number as he counted out bills that he only had because the company had inexplicably not fired him yet.

“I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore,” said Lindy airily.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Biancardi,” he replied with the imitation of contriteness. It sounded unnatural to his ears, and judging by her laughter, she thought the same.

“I’d like to have a meeting,” she said. “When is good for you?”

“Any time except ten to eleven, Monday, Wednesday and Friday,” he said briefly. His voice still had a burr in it. Yet another permanent change to chalk up to the worst night of his life.

“Now,” she said. “Now is good.”

Frantically, he picked his thoughts for an excuse, but none came to mind.

“One moment,” he said. Moving the phone from his ear, he spoke to the taxi driver, who was growing impatient that Yermolai hadn’t left the car yet. “Take me to State Street and Elm,” he ordered. The cabbie shrugged and started off. Lifting the phone back up, he said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

It was closer to twenty when he finally hobbled up the stairs to the glass doors on the rehearsal studio. Mina, one of his fellow dancers, was coming out, and she exclaimed his name and, oozing sympathy, held the door open for him. For all that what had happened to Yermolai was his fault, none of his fellow dancers held his injuries against him. They knew how much joy they got from dancing, that no one could achieve their level of expertise if they didn’t live and breathe the movement. Perhaps Yermolai had made a stupid decision that night – everyone knew what had happened – but as far as they were concerned, the magnitude of his punishment far outweighed his crime. Mina talked in his ear for a few moments, asking how he’d been, and he answered as succinctly and disinterestedly as possible until she gave up and left. This wasn’t his life any more. These weren’t his people any longer. They could appreciate his loss, empathize with it, but they couldn’t actually _understand_ it any more than a person with sight could truly understand how it felt to be blind.

Lindy was in her office, staring intently at her computer, when Yermolai carefully planted his feet to stand steadily and knocked on her door. She gestured him in silently and finished what she was doing.

“I want to transfer you to being a choreographer,” she said without preamble as she turned from her computer screen. Yermolai stared at her in amazement, positive he must not have heard her right.

“You’re not firing me?” he said blankly.

“You’re too talented to waste,” she explained. “We’re in the early stages of putting together the summer show. I expect you to work with the choreography team, give them your honest input, and we’ll see how it goes for one season. Unless you don’t want to?” The last was said as a direct challenge as Lindy stared into his eyes.

Jaw working, Yermolai fished for an answer. Lindy looked like she expected one immediately. It had never occurred to him that he could continue to be involved in the world of dance even if he was not physically able to dance. He still understood how bodies moved. He’d still been a dancer for longer than he could remember. He still knew how to thread individual movements into sequences that would blow the mind of someone watching. On the one hand, not having to leave was wonderful, everything Yermolai could want. On the other hand, working with his former company would be a constant, grinding reminder of what he had lost, day in and day out alongside those who could do what he could only remember and dream of. The prospect scared him.

“I’ll try,” he stammered. If his fears proved grounded, he could quit, but he’d never know if he didn’t try.

“Good. I know you will.” She turned back to the computer screen. “Monday morning, 8 AM, you know the drill.”

“What about my physical therapy appointments?” he asked nervously. If he had to change days and times, he’d almost certainly lose Gregory. His hands yet smelled of sweat and musk from the grip the other man had held him in earlier. As difficult as seeing Gregory was, not seeing him would be much worse. Of course, there were still the evenings. There was no way Yermolai was going to quit that particular bad habit.

“Easily worked around,” she said dismissively. “Also, I’m e-mailing you a few links. Watch them, and we can talk.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The cab ride home went faster than the to the studio had, and Yermolai returned to his computers to see what Lindy had sent him. A sequence of five short documentaries posted on YouTube told the story of a dancer who had lost a leg in a terrorist attack. Like Yermolai, it was her dominant leg, and like him, her amputation was above the knee. Two years of training and a custom prosthetic later, she was dancing again, nearly as well as she once had. There was hope, after all. Lindy would never have sent him something like that as a hollow temptation.

Yermolai had never wanted anything more.

Feeling like a million bucks, he settled in for an afternoon of exercising and shredding every copy of his resume he could find. There was a perverse delight in systematically annihilating the cover letter from his hard drive, too. With the prospect of being able to dance in his future...Lindy would not have sent him those links if she wasn’t willing to work with him, wasn’t at least entertaining the possibility of letting him perform wearing such a leg. He dreaded to think how much such a fancy prosthetic would cost, but that it was possible at all motivated Yermolai in a way that nothing else had.

A trip to the local Chinese food restaurant saw him home at five with a decidedly-off-diet carton of lo mein and a six pack of beer. He deserved to celebrate. Eating his noodles, he switched on his feed of the gym to watch Gregory.

Like the night before, Gregory cleaned the mats before he settled down to his work. Doing both took nearly two hours. Friday nights always took Gregory longest, he spent time with each client’s folder and really looked at them, often writing a lot, as he presumably reflected on the week gone by and prepared for the next week. Finally, with a sigh, Gregory finished and stood, knuckling his back.

Yermolai turned on the PA system. “The bathrooms are a disgrace. Next time I go in to one, if I smell anything other than cleaner, I will blame you personally.”

Nodding absently, look of fatigue fading from his face, Gregory went to the janitorial closet, filled a bucket with water and cleaning fluid, took a sponge and a mop, and went to clean the bathrooms. Not a word in reply, not a hint of surprise or objection, he just...did it. For the mysterious stranger on the other end of the PA system.

What the hell must be going through Gregory’s head?

It took Gregory an hour to deep clean the women’s bathroom, and an hour and a half to finish the men’s. He was as meticulous as he’d been with the mats, and by the time he was done the mirrors were perfectly clear, the white porcelain of the sinks, toilets, and urinals gleamed, and the floor looked like it was newly installed. After dumping out his fourth bucket of dirty water, cleaning up the sponges and mop, and putting everything away, Gregory went back to the men’s room to survey what he’d done, inhaling deeply with a satisfied expression on his face.

“Not good enough,” Yermolai said with bated breath.

What would he…

Without the least hint of displeasure or frustration, Gregory went back to the janitors closet, got all of the cleaning stuff out again, and spent another half hour on the women’s bathroom and another hour on the men’s. He vacuumed the ceiling tiles, he cleaned the vents, he emptied the traps in each toilet, he unclogged the drains. All of these things made a mess, which he cleaned just as diligently as he had the first time. When he was done, he set about to do a thorough general cleaning once more. Yermolai watched him, breath hissing through his teeth at each additional thing Gregory chose to do, his hand clutching his cock, so entranced he kept forgetting to even stroke himself, so hot and hard it was painful.

No one was this perfect.

Gregory must be setting Yermolai up or something.

 _No one_ was this perfect.

Finally, Gregory finished up again, put away all the cleaning supplies again, and stood in the pristine bathroom again, waiting patiently, expression serene.

“Prove to me it’s clean,” Yermolai demanded. Remembering himself, he stroked, coaxing out pleasure and pre-release as he bit his lip to keep silent. The sway of Gregory’s hips as he walked was intoxicating, the limp way his hair hung, sweaty and coated in cleaning sprays was gorgeous, the brightness of his open face was tranquility and joy itself.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Gregory walked to the urinal and licked. He didn’t think the other man knew where the camera was, because the angle was lousy, but nonetheless Yermolai could see Gregory’s long, pink tongue delicately leaving a thin line of moisture on the china, running along the top lip of the urinal, lapping up water as he flushed it once, stroking a hand down the side. Eyes slipping closed in unmistakable pleasure, Gregory followed the flow of water down and circled the drain with his tongue before pausing to kiss it gently.

Yermolai barely turned the PA off in time to hide the sounds of his moaning orgasm.

No one was this perfect, except that Gregory was.

It might have been the best day of Yermolai’s life. It was certainly top five.


	4. Chapter 4

Physical therapy on Friday was sweet torture. Yermolai was working on hopping exercises to strengthen his core and supporting leg and to improve his balance. Fine and dandy, except doing so involved standing and facing Gregory, holding both his hands, so that Gregory could give him extra support and balance. The whole time, Yermolai searched the man’s weathered, scarred face for any sign that Gregory realized who had spoken to him on Wednesday night, had any idea of the effect that he had on Yermolai. There wasn’t the least sign of it. Gregory’s work façade was firmly in place, the encouraging smile, the drawn back shoulders, his blonde hair pulled back into a tiny, bristling ponytail. Blue eyes blithely met brown, not a sign that he had the least clue. Yermolai wasn’t sure if he was relieved or frustrated. By the time they were done, he was exhausted physically, wrung out emotionally, and his hands felt cold now that no one was holding them in a possessive, supportive grip. It flickered through his mind that he needed a new physical therapist. This was getting unhealthy, perverted even by Yermolai’s loose standards, and it was up to him to behave like a responsible adult and put a stop to it.

The thought was easier to have than to act on. Even as good looking as he was – and Yermolai had no illusions that he was anything other than a damn pretty man – it wasn’t easy to find male company who shared his proclivities. With his doe eyes and thick, rumpled black hair, people made assumptions about him, that he was meek, that he was easy, that he was submissive, that he was a bottom. That was not what he wanted in a relationship. Yevgeniy had been the first man he’d been with long term who both understood and agreed to Yermolai’s conditions, to Yermolai’s domination. Losing Yevgeniy had hurt, and Yermolai’d had little chance to process their break up and get over it, considering that the same evening he’d gotten smashed and decided that a midnight hike would be a brilliant idea. A nasty fall and three days before he was found drove away all thoughts of being dumped. He’d been too afraid he would die to care that Yevgeniy had broken his heart.

Maybe Gregory was a rebound. That would explain a lot. It was still only five months since his injuries and rescue. Five months had seen a lot of changes to Yermolai: he’d lost his leg and two fingers, and nasty abrasions scored long, ugly scars down his back. He’s lost his job...with a sigh he realized he could no longer procrastinate seeing what the messages from the dance company were about. On the cab ride home from rehab, he listened to all five they had left him over the preceding week.

“Hi, Berezin, how are you doing?” The light, cheerful voice belied both the age and the expertise of the woman behind it. Even at 66, Lindy was one of the finest dancers that Yermolai had ever seen. Lindy’s dance company toured all over the United States, and only the best were chosen. “You ready to come in and talk about your status with us going forward? How would Monday work for you? Call me back and we can figure something out.”

“Berezin, I know this must be hard for you,” said the second message, Lindy’s voice more serious. “However, it doesn’t need to be the end of the world. Call me back.”

“I have your home address,” went the third. “I will use it.” Yermolai shuddered. Not an idle threat. She would show up and pound on his door until the neighbors called the cops, if she had to.

“Don’t be juvenile, Berezin,” said the fourth unsympathetically. “I thought better of you than this.”

The last simply said, “call me back.”

The taxi pulled up to the house, and he dialed Lindy’s number as he counted out bills that he only had because the company had inexplicably not fired him yet.

“I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore,” said Lindy airily.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Biancardi,” he replied with the imitation of contriteness. It sounded unnatural to his ears, and judging by her laughter, she thought the same.

“I’d like to have a meeting,” she said. “When is good for you?”

“Any time except ten to eleven, Monday, Wednesday and Friday,” he said briefly. His voice still had a burr in it. Yet another permanent change to chalk up to the worst night of his life.

“Now,” she said. “Now is good.”

Frantically, he picked his thoughts for an excuse, but none came to mind.

“One moment,” he said. Moving the phone from his ear, he spoke to the taxi driver, who was growing impatient that Yermolai hadn’t left the car yet. “Take me to State Street and Elm,” he ordered. The cabbie shrugged and started off. Lifting the phone back up, he said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

It was closer to twenty when he finally hobbled up the stairs to the glass doors on the rehearsal studio. Mina, one of his fellow dancers, was coming out, and she exclaimed his name and, oozing sympathy, held the door open for him. For all that what had happened to Yermolai was his fault, none of his fellow dancers held his injuries against him. They knew how much joy they got from dancing, that no one could achieve their level of expertise if they didn’t live and breathe the movement. Perhaps Yermolai had made a stupid decision that night – everyone knew what had happened – but as far as they were concerned, the magnitude of his punishment far outweighed his crime. Mina talked in his ear for a few moments, asking how he’d been, and he answered as succinctly and disinterestedly as possible until she gave up and left. This wasn’t his life any more. These weren’t his people any longer. They could appreciate his loss, empathize with it, but they couldn’t actually _understand_ it any more than a person with sight could truly understand how it felt to be blind.

Lindy was in her office, staring intently at her computer, when Yermolai carefully planted his feet to stand steadily and knocked on her door. She gestured him in silently and finished what she was doing.

“I want to transfer you to being a choreographer,” she said without preamble as she turned from her computer screen. Yermolai stared at her in amazement, positive he must not have heard her right.

“You’re not firing me?” he said blankly.

“You’re too talented to waste,” she explained. “We’re in the early stages of putting together the summer show. I expect you to work with the choreography team, give them your honest input, and we’ll see how it goes for one season. Unless you don’t want to?” The last was said as a direct challenge as Lindy stared into his eyes.

Jaw working, Yermolai fished for an answer. Lindy looked like she expected one immediately. It had never occurred to him that he could continue to be involved in the world of dance even if he was not physically able to dance. He still understood how bodies moved. He’d still been a dancer for longer than he could remember. He still knew how to thread individual movements into sequences that would blow the mind of someone watching. On the one hand, not having to leave was wonderful, everything Yermolai could want. On the other hand, working with his former company would be a constant, grinding reminder of what he had lost, day in and day out alongside those who could do what he could only remember and dream of. The prospect scared him.

“I’ll try,” he stammered. If his fears proved grounded, he could quit, but he’d never know if he didn’t try.

“Good. I know you will.” She turned back to the computer screen. “Monday morning, 8 AM, you know the drill.”

“What about my physical therapy appointments?” he asked nervously. If he had to change days and times, he’d almost certainly lose Gregory. His hands yet smelled of sweat and musk from the grip the other man had held him in earlier. As difficult as seeing Gregory was, not seeing him would be much worse. Of course, there were still the evenings. There was no way Yermolai was going to quit that particular bad habit.

“Easily worked around,” she said dismissively. “Also, I’m e-mailing you a few links. Watch them, and we can talk.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The cab ride home went faster than the to the studio had, and Yermolai returned to his computers to see what Lindy had sent him. A sequence of five short documentaries posted on YouTube told the story of a dancer who had lost a leg in a terrorist attack. Like Yermolai, it was her dominant leg, and like him, her amputation was above the knee. Two years of training and a custom prosthetic later, she was dancing again, nearly as well as she once had. There was hope, after all. Lindy would never have sent him something like that as a hollow temptation.

Yermolai had never wanted anything more.

Feeling like a million bucks, he settled in for an afternoon of exercising and shredding every copy of his resume he could find. There was a perverse delight in systematically annihilating the cover letter from his hard drive, too. With the prospect of being able to dance in his future...Lindy would not have sent him those links if she wasn’t willing to work with him, wasn’t at least entertaining the possibility of letting him perform wearing such a leg. He dreaded to think how much such a fancy prosthetic would cost, but that it was possible at all motivated Yermolai in a way that nothing else had.

A trip to the local Chinese food restaurant saw him home at five with a decidedly-off-diet carton of lo mein and a six pack of beer. He deserved to celebrate. Eating his noodles, he switched on his feed of the gym to watch Gregory.

Like the night before, Gregory cleaned the mats before he settled down to his work. Doing both took nearly two hours. Friday nights always took Gregory longest, he spent time with each client’s folder and really looked at them, often writing a lot, as he presumably reflected on the week gone by and prepared for the next week. Finally, with a sigh, Gregory finished and stood, knuckling his back.

Yermolai turned on the PA system. “The bathrooms are a disgrace. Next time I go in to one, if I smell anything other than cleaner, I will blame you personally.”

Nodding absently, look of fatigue fading from his face, Gregory went to the janitorial closet, filled a bucket with water and cleaning fluid, took a sponge and a mop, and went to clean the bathrooms. Not a word in reply, not a hint of surprise or objection, he just...did it. For the mysterious stranger on the other end of the PA system.

What the hell must be going through Gregory’s head?

It took Gregory an hour to deep clean the women’s bathroom, and an hour and a half to finish the men’s. He was as meticulous as he’d been with the mats, and by the time he was done the mirrors were perfectly clear, the white porcelain of the sinks, toilets, and urinals gleamed, and the floor looked like it was newly installed. After dumping out his fourth bucket of dirty water, cleaning up the sponges and mop, and putting everything away, Gregory went back to the men’s room to survey what he’d done, inhaling deeply with a satisfied expression on his face.

“Not good enough,” Yermolai said with bated breath.

What would he…

Without the least hint of displeasure or frustration, Gregory went back to the janitors closet, got all of the cleaning stuff out again, and spent another half hour on the women’s bathroom and another hour on the men’s. He vacuumed the ceiling tiles, he cleaned the vents, he emptied the traps in each toilet, he unclogged the drains. All of these things made a mess, which he cleaned just as diligently as he had the first time. When he was done, he set about to do a thorough general cleaning once more. Yermolai watched him, breath hissing through his teeth at each additional thing Gregory chose to do, his hand clutching his cock, so entranced he kept forgetting to even stroke himself, so hot and hard it was painful.

No one was this perfect.

Gregory must be setting Yermolai up or something.

 _No one_ was this perfect.

Finally, Gregory finished up again, put away all the cleaning supplies again, and stood in the pristine bathroom again, waiting patiently, expression serene.

“Prove to me it’s clean,” Yermolai demanded. Remembering himself, he stroked, coaxing out pleasure and pre-release as he bit his lip to keep silent. The sway of Gregory’s hips as he walked was intoxicating, the limp way his hair hung, sweaty and coated in cleaning sprays was gorgeous, the brightness of his open face was tranquility and joy itself.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Gregory walked to the urinal and licked. He didn’t think the other man knew where the camera was, because the angle was lousy, but nonetheless Yermolai could see Gregory’s long, pink tongue delicately leaving a thin line of moisture on the china, running along the top lip of the urinal, lapping up water as he flushed it once, stroking a hand down the side. Eyes slipping closed in unmistakable pleasure, Gregory followed the flow of water down and circled the drain with his tongue before pausing to kiss it gently.

Yermolai barely turned the PA off in time to hide the sounds of his moaning orgasm.

No one was this perfect, except that Gregory was.

It might have been the best day of Yermolai’s life. It was certainly top five.

* * *

Monday was exhausting.

Yermolai had thought he was making excellent progress. An entire day spent out of the house, moving around on crutches, interacting with other people, showed him how far he still had to go. The recovery timeline he’d been told suggested that he was still three months from trying his first prosthetic. He’d thought that highly unreasonable, until spent eight hours trying to function like everyone else did all the time. Now he wondered if he’d even be ready in six months.

It hadn’t gone _badly_ , though. The choreography team had three people on it, and they quickly caught Yermolai up on what they were thinking in terms of theme. They’d asked his opinion, which he’d unhesitatingly supplied, and the rest of the day had been devoted to integrating his ideas and suggestions into the overall plan. The other two responded to Yermolai in a truly gratifying way. No one of them was the lead choreographer, it was a team effort each brought their own expertise, and they treated Yermolai as an equal from the get-go.

Physical therapy had gone well, too, and even after several hours of use on Monday morning the bathroom had been spectacularly clean. Walking into the room felt like walking into a warm hug, tangible proof of the bizarre interaction that he was carving out with the Gregory, the man who had just helped Yermolai for an hour without the least clue of Yermolai’s double role. It smelled great, not a hint of bleach or of shit, instead faintly vanilla with an undertone of orange. He stood at the urinal that Gregory had licked and struggled to urinate as his penis hardened in his grip. He had to piss, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin what Gregory had made so special for him. He stepped to the next urinal over and managed to relax.

Getting home at six, worried that Gregory had already left the gym, Yermolai hurried to the computer and flipped on the monitors. A quick glance showed him Gregory at his usual post. Heaving a relieved sigh, he quickly fixed himself some dinner and went back to watch.

Not long afterwards, Gregory closed up his folders. He walked purposefully to the janitorial closet, took out the supplies, and cleaned the bathrooms. Having done such a thorough job the first time, it took him much less time now. When he was done, he went to his locker, but instead of stripping, he pulled out a paper bag and walked back to the bathroom. In the same urinal that he had kissed, Gregory laid out his dinner: an apple, a sandwich, a bottle of water, directly on the porcelain surface. He plopped down on the floor before his meal, pants slipping down to show an inch of skin, just a hint of his butt crack. Slowly and deliberately, he ate everything, setting the sandwich and the apple down in between bites, indifferent to the way the apple rolled to have the bitten side lying in the drain.

Gregory balled up his garbage and threw it in the trash as Yermolai came to his climax, shuddering, shoulders hunched over himself.

 _That_ was now the hottest thing he had ever seen.

Licking crumbs from his fingers, Gregory looked around. Yermolai wasn’t sure what he was doing until he saw the blue eyes stare directly into the camera.

“What may I call you?” Gregory asked politely.

For an instant, Yermolai considered not responding, but Gregory had been so obedient and had asked absolutely nothing in return thus far. He deserved some kind of reward for his good behavior.

Flipping on the PA, Yermolai panted, “Praskovya.” It was a nickname he’d been given in high school to mock him for his outed homosexuality, but he’d gotten the last laugh in every one of those cases, and using the name made him feel powerful. Using Gregory made him feel powerful.

“What may I do for you tonight, Praskovya?” Gregory folded his hands behind his back and waited patiently. On Gregory’s lips, the name sent a shiver down Yermolai spine. Come leaked from the tip of Yermolai’s twitching cock, and he wondered if he might actually get hard again so quickly.

“I can’t believe you have not noticed the state of the entry foyer,” Yermolai snapped.


	5. Chapter 5

So it went for weeks. Every night, Gregory followed the routine that Yermolai laid out for him, starting with the exercise mats. Gregory completed his paperwork, scrubbed the bathrooms, dusted, vacuumed and mopped the entrance foyer until no one would ever again believe the plants were fake, wiped down every machine in the gym thoroughly, cleaned every reflective surface in the building in size order – whatever Yermolai came up with was done.

Every time, Gregory found a way to demonstrate just how far he would go.

Every single fucking day, Yermolai found himself falling that much harder.

“What may I do for you tonight, Praskovya?” Gregory would ask when he finished. Some days, Yermolai added more, some he didn’t. It was getting later and later when Gregory left work, 9, 10, after midnight that first Friday when Gregory cleaned the bathrooms, and Yermolai stayed up with him the whole time even as the summer dance season approached and his schedule at the studio grew more intense.

When Yermolai suggested that Gregory could remove the entryway from the daily rotation, Gregory had gone to the coffee station in the employee lounge, cleaned the entire fridge as Yermolai ordered him to, took all the old, disgusting food that the other employees had forgotten about, and dumped everything on the floor of the entry.

“I’d better clean the whole thing again,” he’d said blithely, and promptly done so.

Gregory left at 1 AM that night.

After Yermolai said that he hated the way the weight room was arranged, Gregory single-handedly moved everything around. Judging by the look on Gregory’s face at physical therapy the next day, unusually pinched and fatigued, it had been a strain for him, but he’d done it. As Yermolai was leaving, he heard Gregory getting chewed out – really, screamed at – by his boss, and saw the stoicism with which he accepted the abuse. It was awkward, going back to the dance studio with an erection.

“What may I do for you tonight, Praskovya?” asked Gregory that evening.

“I preferred the old configuration,” Yermolai told him, and watched as Gregory moved everything back.

At physical therapy, he and Gregory increasingly had conversations. Even though Gregory didn’t know that Yermolai and Praskovya were one and the same, it was impossible for Yermolai not to want to demonstrate how much he valued the other man. During their appointments, when Gregory tried to draw him out, Yermolai answered, keeping his voice rough, his Russian accent thick, his answers brief but informative, even as his throat slowly healed.

The fourth month of physical therapy came and went, and Yermolai felt increasingly guilty. He got a great deal out of his...relationship felt like the wrong word, but he could think of no other...with Gregory, but he wasn’t sure what Gregory got out of it. He must be getting _something_. His relaxed shoulders were starting to spread into his work day, that calm, pleased smile a fixture from the moment the last person left the gym. Yermolai increasingly found himself wanting to do something for the other man, and it took him a week of careful listening and observation before he finally settled on an appropriate gift. He shopped all weekend to find something perfect.

That Monday night, Yermolai nervously flicked on the monitors at eight. It was the latest he’d ever been. Gregory was scrubbing at a stain on one of the entry foyer rugs, whistling aimlessly to himself. He looked tired, Yermolai thought, though happy, and Yermolai resolved to find some way within the strange rules of the game they were playing to let Gregory leave earlier.

It was after nine when Gregory finished his tasks. He went to the men’s room, which for whatever reason was the only camera he would speak to directly, and said, “Praskovya, what may I do for you tonight?”

For once, Yermolai was so tense he wasn’t even hard, which would make the first time in over a week that Gregory hadn’t gotten him off twice in a night.

“I have a question,” he said. For the first time, Gregory was surprised, eyes impossibly bright in the spotless bathroom. Yermolai never asked questions. It was a night for firsts, for rewards and presents. With impressive patience, Gregory waited for Yermolai to continue, though Yermolai could swear he could see the other man’s body thrumming with...something. Wonder, confusion, curiosity, perhaps desire? Yermolai’s penis twitched as he deliberately drew the moment out.

“How do you see our relationship?” he asked.

“Relationship?” Gregory repeated the word softly, voice made hollow by the crappy speaker pick up, as if he’d no idea what it meant. He frowned, eyes lowering. “I’m yours.” He looked back up at the camera, brow furrowed with worry.

Oh, yeah, that was one big fucking erection coming on, fast. Only a deep breath kept a possessive growl from spilling from Yermolai’s throat.

“Yes, you are,” Yermolai agreed. Gregory looked unspeakably relieved, all the tension leaving his body. Staring closely, for the first time Yermolai saw the twitch in Gregory’s pants. He knew it must have been happening sometime, some place. He couldn’t believe that Gregory would subject himself to Yermolai’s control if he didn’t derive as much satisfaction from this – psychological, physical, sexual – as Yermolai did. Nonetheless, he found his own tension draining away when he saw the growing bulge. His erection practically bucked into his hand as he unzipped his pants. It wasn’t that he’d doubted that Gregory enjoyed this, it was flagrantly obvious he did, but Yermolai had worried that they weren’t on the same wavelength. Tonight would prove it, one way or the other.

“You’ve been very good,” Yermolai said, gently massaging the swollen head of his cock. His words grew breathier. “I bought you a gift. I’ve placed it somewhere special just for you. Why don’t you find it, and tell me what you think?”

Gregory was always perfect, but this was the hardest test that Yermolai had ever devised for him. This was the hardest test that Yermolai had ever devised for anyone he had been with, ever. Yevgeniy had walked out on him for half this.

There was a flicker of concentration on Gregory’s face, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed alluringly. In Yermolai’s mind, those lips were around him, and Yermolai silently worked himself as Gregory reached a decision and went to the janitor’s closet. He was completely out of sight for a couple minutes. When he emerged, he held a flat head screw driver, and he walked directly back to the men’s room. Yermolai zoomed in on that camera and made the bathroom view full screen. Nothing that mattered was going to happen anywhere else in the building.

 _He knows_.

Yermolai couldn’t hold back his panting breath now, though he tried. It still might be too good to be true. He was asking so much, expecting so much. His whole body throbbed in time to his heart beat, in time to the remaining fingers on his right hand stroking the length of his erection. Gregory walked directly to the urinal and used the screw driver to remove the drain cover.

 _He knows_.

Biting his lip, Yermolai tried to hold back a moan, but he couldn’t. As the sound echoed over the PA system, tension stiffened Gregory’s back as he stood back up, replaced the drain cover and put the screw driver down on the sink counter. His expression was intense, his cheeks showing a flush of pink. Any moment, he’d reach in and take what Yermolai had left that morning, repeatedly washed over by a day’s worth of men’s leavings.

 _He really knows_.

Deliberately, slowly, turning so that Yermolai could watch, Gregory tugged the waistband of his pants down, lowered his boxer-briefs, pulled out his cock. It was the first time that Gregory had ever knowingly exposed himself for Yermolai, and Yermolai murmured his approval, “Yes, wow, that’s…” unable to make a coherent sentence. Gregory was semi-hard, twitching, his breathing coming in slight gasps that set his shirt fluttering. Taking a hold of himself, Gregory turned back to the urinal, staring Yermolai in the eyes the entire time. No, there was no way that Gregory could knew that Yermolai was mesmerized in that moment, captured, unable to look away, yet somehow, Yermolai was certain that Gregory _did_ know. Face relaxed and calm, fingers clenched white-knuckled on the lip of the urinal, Gregory peed, then bent down and reached through the liquid to withdraw the package that Yermolai had hidden. In case there had been the least doubt that Gregory would reach through filth to obtain something that Yermolai had bought for him, Gregory seen fit to prove it. He always, _always_ , found a way to demonstrate how far he would go, how much further than requested he would go.

Nothing Yermolai had ever seen, ever experienced, ever even fantasized about, lived up to the reality of Gregory’s performance.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he ground out with a groan. 

Taking the dripping black bag to the sink, Gregory tenderly washed it off, hands caressing the plastic, face flushed. Yermolai gave up completely on trying to repress the sounds he made. Gregory was un-fucking-believable. No one had the right to be so good. The present that Gregory was now carefully drying off was not nearly enough of a reward. Let him hear how fucking crazy he was driving Yermolai, let Gregory know how much power he had, the extent to which he had become everything, the _only_ thing that Yermolai wanted. Yermolai’s body felt like it was on fire, his insides clenched tighter and tighter. Each hard pull on his overwrought erection drew a plaintive, ragged gasping sound from him.

Hands shaking, Gregory opened the bag and withdrew the contents. Two black leather wristbands, plain and unembellished except for a gold keyhole set in one a locking mechanism at the clasp. Each band was open. Looking at them, then back at the camera, Gregory looked more moved, more stricken, than Yermolai had ever seen him. His hands hovered over the first, hesitating.

“May I put them on, Praskovya?” he asked breathlessly. It was the first thing Gregory had ever said wrong. Of course he could fucking put them on, they were for him, and there would have to be consequences for Gregory’s misstep, but not now. Yermolai would wait for the right opportunity, the right night, the right game, and find something appropriate, the perfect punishment for his perfect submissive.

“Yes,” said Yermolai. His free arm slammed on his desk as he folded in on himself. He couldn’t even hold his head up any longer. The entire world, all of his existence, was subsumed in how fucking amazing he felt, and how much he wanted the man across town at the rehabilitation center. “Yes.” Forced out through his teeth, hissing. He heard the locks click shut. “Yes!”

“Thank you, Praskovya,” Gregory’s voice was hollowed by the distance and terrible sound system, but he still managed to make the name into a caress.

“Gregory,” Yermolai gasped out. His climax broke on him like a fucking bomb going off, hips thrusting into his hand so hard that he collapsed out of his chair and onto his knee on the ground. “Fucking perfect fucking Gregory.” Come sprayed in thick jets to rest, glistening, on the floor. Yermolai inhaled desperately and tried to think of anything other than how amazing he felt. A small voice in his mind whispered that it could, inconceivably, be even better. He could be inside Gregory, feeling him move and clench, hearing him breathe and moan and beg. He shuddered and whimpered, pleasure continuing to hit him in waves that tumbled him down every time a rational thought tried to coalesce.

The sound of Gregory’s whistling, desperate breathing resolved itself from Yermolai’s fantasy. He wasn’t imagining noises that Gregory might make were they to have sex. Gregory was actually making those noises. It was an effort for Yermolai to force his body, boneless and exhausted, back into his chair, to lift his head to view the computer monitor. In the center of the camera’s field of vision, Gregory knelt on the floor, pants shoved down, sleeves rolled up, the cuffs that marked Yermolai’s ownership fucking molded around Gregory’s wrists as he ran his hand along his hard, thick erection, red with blood. The tip was white with liquid that Gregory wiped away and used to lubricate his hand as he stroked harder, back arching to thrust his hips into his firm grip.

“Stop,” Yermolai breathed. Words should not be so fucking hard. With a moan that was just this side of a sob, the first sound of protest that he’d ever heard Gregory make, the hand stopped moving. Leaning back, Gregory balled up both fists and set them on the ground behind him, trembling. His face was wrecked, eyes narrowed, tears leaking from the corners, cheeks flushed a bright red that matched the shade of the head of his penis, right down to the uneven white scar mirroring the black slit oozing pre-come. “You asked me a stupid question before. You should know better than to question how to use so obvious a gift. You will learn. You will not touch yourself and think of me, not once, until I feel you have learned. Do you understand?”

The perfect punishment for the perfect submissive.

“Yes,” said Gregory, clearly struggling to regain his composure. For long minutes, neither of them moved, Gregory somehow bringing his body under control. Yermolai’s unbelievably trying to gear up for round two, just watching Gregory overcome all the raw desire that, Yermolai no longer doubted, matched his own. Gregory hid his erection in his pants, brushed the hair from his face, wiped the drying trails of tears from his cheeks. With a deep breath, as if he were trying to remind himself that he was capable of such a thing, Gregory stood, eyes closed. When he opened them, that blue light focused once more on the camera. Gregory held his wrists up.

“You have the key?”

“Of course,” Yermolai said.

“Then you’re mine,” said Gregory, his face relaxing into a satisfied smile. Whistling his usual aimless tune, Gregory turned to the sink as if he hadn’t just repressed a metric fuckton of desire, and replaced the drain. A bob in his step, Gregory walked to the janitors closet, took out the cleaning supplies, and cleaned the entire damn bathroom again, because hey, there had been urine and a little semen, that must mean it required a fresh scrubbing over every already-gleaming inch. That finally done, the hour approaching eleven, Gregory changed in the locker room, took his shower, and headed out the door.

Yermolai turned the PA system off, thumbing an erection that ached, following so soon after his previous profound sexual experience.

“Fucking perfect,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this was the first full-on porn scene I ever wrote...


	6. Chapter 6

“Those are new,” Yermolai observed, milking his Russian accent for all it was worth.

“Thank you for noticing,” said Gregory, shooting him a winning smile. He held out his cuffed wrists for Yermolai to see. There was no way that Gregory could have taken them off since Monday – the key was on a chain around Yermolai’s neck, underneath his gym shirt – but they were as shiny as new, as if not a drop of water had hit them nor a single errant brush scuffed them.

“They’re...unusual,” said Yermolai doubtfully as he secretly drank in the evident delight on Gregory’s face.

“They’re perfect,” Gregory replied with satisfaction.

“Ah, your girlfriend gave them to you,” Yermolai said sagely. The first day of the first week of month five had Yermolai wearing an ill-fitting prosthetic so he learn how it felt and to test whether his stump was ready to bear his weight. Wearing it was awkward but offered his first glimpse of the freedom he’d have when he actually could use his damn hands again while walking. Gregory hovered close, well aware of the dangers of a fall. In all their time together, Yermolai had started to go down many times, and Gregory had never once broken Gym Rule #1. He never let Yermolai fall, catching Yermolai with his powerful arms, bracing Yermolai with his firm, muscular body.

“Nope.” A slow smile spread over Gregory’s face as if he had a secret.

“Your boyfriend?” suggested Yermolai with a knowing wink.

“Someone special gave them to me,” said Gregory brightly. “Someone I love.” The prosthetic twisted beneath him and Yermolai went down like a ton of rocks, right into Gregory’s waiting arms. “Oopsy daisy,” said Gregory with utter innocence, as if he were talking to a preschooler.

For the first time, it crossed Yermolai’s mind worriedly that Gregory might have known all along, that his secrecy was only another part of the game. But the ingenuousness of Gregory’s expression, the same professionalism in his eyes as every other day, the only slightly more open smile, the tone of voice like he was simply sharing a happy event with a friend, convinced Yermolai that he was imagining things.

Three more bobbles, three more times when Gregory needed to catch him, led Gregory to say that maybe Yermolai wasn’t ready to try a prosthetic yet – but they should arrange the fitting anyway, so that it would be ready when Yermolai needed it. Walking on a prosthetic for the first time while Yermolai’s thoughts were roiled by such a casual declaration and his pants tightened by an erection was in fact impossible, not that Gregory could possibly know that.

After the appointment, Gregory waited for him outside the locker room with a clipboard. “So, what time is good for you for your fitting appointment?”

“Two weeks,” said Yermolai reluctantly. “I am very busy, preparing for a show.” He was always as succinct as he could be, though he longed to say more. He wanted to tell Gregory about his job, yearned to speak with him as a friend. He longed to warn Gregory that he would be working late nights for the next few weeks before the summer dance show debuted and thus would not usually be at his computer during the evening. There was nothing he could say, though. Maybe that evening he could contrive to warn Gregory of his impending absence.

“You’re still working as a dancer?” asked Gregory with surprise. “You never told me. I’d have adjusted your training accordingly.”

“I’m not,” said Yermolai, flushing. “I choreograph now.”

“But you want to dance again?” said Gregory shrewdly.

“Here.” Yermolai reached into his pocket and pulled out a ticket to opening night of the summer season dance show. “They gave me a few tickets.” Gregory took it curiously, reading over the information. There was so much more that Yermolai longed to say! “I hope I see you there.”

“You will,” Gregory promised.

* * *

“I wanted to let you know,” broached Gregory tentatively as he gathered up a length of rug from the hallway near the locker rooms. “I have to leave early tomorrow night.”

“Oh?” asked Yermolai, who had been wondering when Gregory would mention his theater plans. The two weeks had passed in a jumbled, exhausting mess, and Yermolai gotten home later and later each night. Somehow, Gregory had figured out that Yermolai wasn’t watching him, and had started saving his chores for near midnight.

Fucking perfect.

“One of my patients has invited me to see a dance company that he is a part of,” explained Gregory.

“You teach dancers now?” said Yermolai, with an imitation of huffiness. “I thought it was all cripples and has-beens in the physical therapist field.”

“Of course not,” said Gregory with a bright smile. Casually, he draped the rug over a coat rack and began beating dust out of it, onto the floor he’d just finished scrubbing. At each swing of a paddle he’d gotten from who-knew-where, his body tensed and then relaxed, the complex play of muscles beneath cloth enticing. He spoke in grunting rushes between paddle strokes. _I wonder how red I could get that fine ass if I spanked him with that paddle?_ “Many of the people...who come here are athletes...recovering from injuries...trying to get back...to the things they did before. My patient is like that...used to be a dancer...now he’s a choreographer...at least until he’s...on two legs again.”

“He only has one?”

“Are you jealous?” teased Gregory.

“And if I am?” said Yermolai ominously.

“Tell me not to go and I won’t go,” said Gregory with the air of a promise.

“You may go,” conceded Yermolai, watching Gregory’s face closely. There was no change in his expression. “You will make it up to me on Thursday.”

“I will,” vowed Gregory. He sweat freely as he pulled the rug down, picked the next one up and repeated the process.

There were three rugs left, and it was impossible to watch the strain of Gregory’s body without wanting him, without imagining that strain beneath him, around him, without concocting a different source for Gregory’s grunts and hard breathing. Not bothering to turn the speakers off, Yermolai coaxed himself to orgasm watching the mighty man at his work. Yermolai finished as Gregory did, and watched the other man pant, face red and streaked with sweat, erection tenting his pants. As if he wasn’t the least aroused, Gregory gathered up the rugs, took them back where they belonged, and cleaned up all the dirt that his work had left on the hallways floors. There was tension on his face, but he didn’t touch himself. It wasn’t the first hard-on that Gregory had ignored since receiving his cherished cuffs, and Yermolai had yet to give him permission to do anything about it. Theoretically, Gregory could have masturbated at home, but Yermolai knew he hadn’t. Because Gregory was perfect, and Yermolai’s perfect sub wouldn’t do that.

“Tell me about this dancer.” Yermolai finally gave into the temptation to hear how Gregory would speak of him to a stranger.

“He is the most gorgeous, hard-working man I have ever worked with,” said Gregory flippantly, mopping. There was a pregnant pause. “Are you jealous now?”

“No,” said Yermolai. “I trust you will demonstrate on Thursday why I should not be.” Sometimes it seemed impossible that Gregory could know that his Praskovya and his patient Yermolai were the same person, and other times it seemed impossible that he didn’t know. Suspicion flared in Yermolai’s mind again, watching Gregory smirk as he worked.

When he finished with the floor, Gregory went to the camera in the men’s room and looked at it. His expression was complacent but it must be an illusion. If Yermolai hadn’t been able to touch his erection for the past hour, he’d be losing his mind.

“What may I do for you tonight, Praskovya?” asked Gregory, the faintest hint of a challenge in his voice.

“Nothing,” said Yermolai blithely. “You’ve done well. Go home.”

For a moment Gregory looked as though he might object, but he quelled his rebelliousness, smiled, and headed to the locker room. The grin lasted until he started to change his clothing. Gregory whimpered as he pulled down his pants and underwear, the trembling in his hands only noticeable because of the way it rippled through the cloth. Otherwise, he didn’t give the least sign of how difficult he found following Yermolai’s orders. He took a shower, came back out, his breath hissed as he pulled his pants back on, tucking his erection secretively into uncomfortably tight looking underwear, gathered his things, and left.

Absolutely fucking perfect.

* * *

The summer season at the dance company started on June 21st, and in between running – crutching? – around making sure every last minute change was known to every dancer, helping with props and costumes, double checking every piece of tape on the stage, all the minutiae of opening night, Yermolai stole glances back at the crowd, trying to spot Gregory. Yermolai saw no sign of him, though.

Everything was pandemonium until the moment the performance began. Finally, Yermolai could sink gratefully into a chair, relieve his overworked shoulders, work his fingers. Watching the show silently from the lighting booth, letting the music wash over him, he wished that he was the one springing, stretching, sweating, sweeping across the stage. He’d watched the entire show repeatedly during rehearsals the past week, but there was still something different and magical about seeing it with the house lights down, the stage lights up, and an audience raptly staring at each motion with baited breath. Tension, electric enthrallment, infected him. The show on the stage was the product of all the hard work that he and the others had done. The magic that was made, he’d had a critical hand in producing. It wasn’t the same as dancing himself, but it wasn’t as far from the feeling as he’d expected it to be. He’d definitely be continuing as choreographer, if Lindy would permit him to do so.

During intermission, Yermolai made his way to the orchestra to look for Gregory. There had been no time to interact before the show, and afterwards, there was a party planned, flowers to be passed around, Champaign to be drunk, speeches to be heard. The successful launching of each season’s show was always a big to-do. Everyone would do their dances again the next day, except with a hangover, but opening night was the only performance that Yermolai, as choreographer, was expected to attend. Tomorrow, he’d return to a regular work schedule as they began to plan the autumn show, and the performers would tour the country. He’d be able to return home plenty early to see whatever Gregory had planned for him. The thought sent a shiver up his spine. Gregory hadn’t let him down yet, and it no longer crossed Yermolai’s mind for more than an instant that Gregory ever would.

“Yermolai,” said the warm, familiar voice, just when Yermolai started to get frantic and the house lights flashed to warn the audience that they only had two minutes to return to their seats. He turned to see the man himself.

Yermolai understood, in an abstract sense, that there were few things in the world more attractive than a good looking man in a well-cut suit. In a less abstract sense, he’d been on dates with men who showed off this simple truth, and Yevgeniy had always looked fantastic when he came to Yermolai’s performances. Gregory waved, easy smile beaming, somehow completely unaware of the effect that his appearance had on Yermolai.

“Gregory! I’m glad you made it!” he stammered, no need to fake how thick his accent was due to his arousal.

There was absolutely nothing abstract about how fucking amazing Gregory looked. Yermolai swallowed, with difficulty, and tried to find any more words as Gregory wove through the audience towards him. Dark gray pants, dark gray jacket unbuttoned to reveal a crisply ironed white shirt, tie loose around the muscles of his neck, Gregory was a vision that could easily have graced the cover of GQ. With his hands in his pockets, cuffs just barely visible, his shoulders back, he looked completely relaxed and at home in his chiseled, powerful, fricken perfect enticing body. Yermolai finished his scan at Gregory’s blue eyes, muted for once in the dimly lit auditorium, one eyebrow quirked. They were only standing a few feet apart, His lips were moving, Yermolai realized, unable to think of anything but how much he wanted to peel off that jacket, teasingly unbutton that shirt, feel those lips moving against his.

“Yes,” he said breathlessly, hoping it was an appropriate response to whatever the fuck Gregory had said to him. “I’m glad you came.” He shouldn’t have said that. His mind immediately jumped to how Gregory’s face might look in the throes of passion, the sounds that would come out of his mouth as Yermolai thrust into him and Gregory spurted his load on to their chests. His cheeks flushed.

Leaning close to him, Gregory murmured as the lights went down, “You said that already.” Hot breath danced against Yermolai’s smooth-shaved cheeks, a few strands of hair tickling him. “I have to get back to my seat now,” he continued, turning away. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at our next appointment!”

The house went dark, the orchestra started to play, and Yermolai got to be the asshole who opens the doors – with difficulty, given his crutches – while the dancers are on the stage. Fleeing to the men’s room, deserted with the show resumed, he took care of his hard-on as fast and quietly as he could, his thoughts spinning, his blood coursing. Maybe he should ask if Gregory knew. He bit back a groan. Maybe he should tell Gregory. His fingers played with the thin semen leaking from his slit, flicking across every well-known sensitive spot. Maybe he, as Yermolai, should ask Gregory out on a date and see what happened. Images came to him, Gregory’s butt swaying as he cleaned the mats, the sound of Gregory grunting and huffing as he cleaned the rugs, all that spectacular strength constrained in that suit. Maybe he, as Praskovya, should ask Gregory out on a date…and see what happened. Panting, Yermolai stroked harder. Maybe he should devise a scenario that would enable them to meet, to touch, while maintaining the secret. It wasn’t enough, he wanted more, he wanted to caress, he wanted to tease, he wanted to thrust, he wanted to kiss those lips and taste himself on them, lick his come from Gregory’s chin as it leaked from the corner of his mouth. Maybe…shuddering with desire and need, Yermolai came.

Sheepish smiles were traded with his colleagues as he made his way back to his chair, unsteady enough that he struggled to place his crutches silently and get into his seat without falling. The afterglow left him exhausted and no less desperate than he’d been before.

This situation couldn’t continue much longer. Something had to give.


	7. Chapter 7

Thursday was the longest fucking day of Yermolai’s entire fucking life. Even the third day trapped at the bottom of the ravine, his worn hands bloody from trying to get the rocks off his leg, his voice gone, struggling to sort reality from hallucination as his body shut down from lack of water and food, hadn’t felt so endless. Yermolai’s thoughts went round and round wondering what Gregory had in store for him, wondering what Yermolai was going to do. He was in love with a man whom he had intentionally deceived, had never actually touched except in the most clinical, professional way, and had never had a true, honest conversation with. It was insane.

“You’re still not feeling well, are you?” said Colette sympathetically, brushing pale curls back from her pale skin. He’d explained away his long absence after intermission as food poisoning.

“No,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He was suffering all the same symptoms as the previous night.

“Here’s an idea – let’s call it a day,” suggested Kenichi, heavy frame shaking as he chuckled at his own suggestion. “Last night rocked. We’ve all been working like dogs. Yermolai is sick, and has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Amara is hungover—”

“Yes, I am,” said the ebon-skinned woman mournfully, head drooping.

“—we’ve done plenty. I’ll square it with Lindy,” Kenichi said. “Take today, take tomorrow, take the weekend, see you Monday morning. But you better come in with ideas. _New_ ideas!”

Unable to face going home for only a few hours, Yermolai hung out alone at the studio, staring sightlessly through videos of past performances as he theoretically searched for ideas. His mind was awash with unignorable thoughts.

This couldn’t be love.

This was lust, massive amounts of lust that he had to figure out how to get out of his system.

This was obsession, to a dangerous extent if it was starting to interfere with his ability to work.

A tentative voice in his thoughts dared to make the suggestion that he put a stop to his not-a-relationship with Gregory, put a stop to everything, only to be crushed by a landslide of every other part of his brain, swamping him with reasons that he had to continue.

Gregory was enjoying it too.

Gregory had said he was in love.

Yermolai could be obsessed but still be in love.

They hadn’t even fucked yet.

The protesting voice grew braver. After all, it was hard to argue that the status quo was acceptable when he was sitting at his job, slouched in a chair, view of the screen partially obscured by the cloth of his pants as his body reacted to merely the possibility that the solution to this problem was to pin Gregory to the ground and satisfy Yermolai’s physical desires. Shuddering, he managed to calm himself, took his crutches and hailed a cab to take him to his appointment with the prosthetist.

The nuances of being fitted for his new leg proved interesting enough to distract him during the time he was in the doctor’s office. Each limb was custom made for the individual wearing it, and the doctor spoke with detachment about the process as she measured Yermolai in more places than he would have imagined. The diversion didn’t last long, though, and mid-afternoon saw him sitting on the couch in his silent apartment, wondering how he was going to survive the interminable hours separating him from Gregory’s promised apology. Finally, with a sigh, he went to his computer and turned on his view of the cameras at the rehab center.

It was earlier than he’d ever viewed before, and there were still many clients in the building. The physical therapists worked with their patients, going through the drills, including Gregory, whose distinctive form Yermolai found immediately, the only black-clad therapist in the room who was older than thirty and broad. He’d never seen Gregory work with someone else before. He knew, objectively, that it happened. Based on what Gregory had told him in their conversations during appointments, he was working with 17 different patients. Yermolai had asked what Gregory’s days looked like, once, mostly as an excuse to tease him about his evenings, and had learned that Gregory was always the first person into the building and the last person to leave, coming at 5:30 in the morning to exercise on his own, and staying, sometimes until late, so Gregory had said, to work on his records and personalize training plans for each of his patients. The others apparently did the same, except at their homes. When asked, Gregory had said he didn’t like being at home by himself, but couldn’t be drawn into saying more about it.

Jealousy flared in Yermolai’s breast, though he saw nothing that he hadn’t expected as he watched Gregory work. As always, Gregory was the epitome of responsibility and appropriate behavior. If he felt as much anticipation for the evening as Yermolai, Yermolai struggled to see signs of it. There was perhaps a bit more of a sheen of sweat on his face than normal as he demonstrated proper lifting technique to a person wearing a below-knee prosthetic on their left leg. However, his eyes were clear, his smile his normal “let’s go!” work look, his expression relaxed.

The jealousy lasted until the moment the client left at 4:30, and all of the patients finished up as the employees took to cleaning the gym and finishing up for the day. The instant there were no outsiders to perform for, Gregory’s expression became pinched.

“You okay?” said Emily, the perky woman who had flirting with Yermolai during his one session with her. Judging by her look, she was attempting to flirt with Gregory as well, but he was completely oblivious.

“Just tired,” he said, forcing a smile on his face. “I was out late last night.”

“Oooh, did you have a date?” she said with a wink and the clear hope of being told that hadn’t been the case. For fucks sake, he was almost old enough to be her father. Okay, maybe not that old, Gregory had told Yermolai he was 37, and Emily must be in her mid-twenties – which is to say, pretty close to Yermolai’s age, he was approaching his 26th birthday – but seeing her give Gregory that eager, come-hither look was infuriating.

“I don’t know,” confessed Gregory, a lost look on his face as he helped her rack weights.

“You could ask…” she pointed out.

“Yeah,” he agreed. He was silent for a few minutes, and Yermolai would have given a great deal to know what he was thinking. “I don’t want to risk messing it up.”

“Been there,” she said cluelessly. “Waiting never got anyone anywhere. If you want more, you should say something. Trust me, most chicks dig a guy who says he wants more commitment, rather than less.”

“Yeah,” repeated Gregory vaguely. Shaking his head, blonde hair grown shaggier over the past months, he went about helping the others close up, avoiding Emily’s knowing looks.

At five of five, Yermolai watched Gregory say good bye to the last of his colleagues, lock the front doors from the inside, walk back to the gym, and collapse onto the mats, shuddering. On his knees, he folded into himself, one arm clutched around his middle as if he felt sick, the other holding his head. Gregory pressed his fingers into his eyes, and even through the mediocre camera, Yermolai could see that he was crying, tears working their way past his efforts to hold them in, his shoulders shaking as he silently tried to quash whatever had upset him so badly. With a snort, Yermolai chastised himself. What were the chances that anything other than Yermolai himself was at fault? There wasn’t the least doubt in his mind that Gregory was anticipating the evening as much as Yermolai had been, but he hadn’t been able to beg off his job or behave in any way other than as his usual perky trainer self. Within minutes Gregory had repressed the expression of his feelings, scrubbed his face quickly, put on a smile, and rose and went to get the cleaning supplies. Right at five, he began to scrub the mats of the gym, same as he always did.

Gregory went through his usual evening routine, hands shaking as he tried to hold a pen to write, shoulders growing more and more tense as he finished more and more of his tasks and the hour grew later. Yermolai panted for every breath, cheeks bright and flushed, sweat beading on his forehead as the anticipation that he thought couldn’t possibly grow worse developed into an erection that took all his willpower to hold off on touching. Whatever Gregory had for him, Yermolai wanted to be able to enjoy it to the fullest, he wanted all the tension he had built up since their conversation on Tuesday, since the performance last night, to go into creating moments of bliss when he finally came.

Finishing his clean up, Gregory went to the locker room and proceeded with his evening routine, identical to every night except that he had yet to ask Yermolai for a task. His erection looked painful, red, swollen, and Gregory’s face twisted whenever he brushed it. Nonetheless, he showered and got dressed again. Instead of heading out the doors, though, he walked to the men’s bathroom and stood on the floor in the middle of the room, setting his backpack down beside him, looking daringly at the camera.

“What may I do for you tonight, Praskovya?” 

“You ditched me for a date with someone else last night,” Yermolai thundered as convincingly as he could. “Show me how sorry you are.” His voice was thick with desire.

For a moment, a flicker of an unfamiliar expression crossed Gregory’s face – could that have reticence? It seemed impossible. Shyness, more like, a bashful lowering of the eyes, a nervous quirk to the lips. Before Yermolai could be sure, the look was gone, and the confident, strong man that Yermolai was used to seeing had returned. Gregory lifted a hand to his mouth as Yermolai finally, mercifully, withdrew his swollen penis from his pants, skipping the zipper completely, instead unbuttoning and lowering both his pants and his boxers. He didn’t want anything in his way. Gregory tugged his shirt off and dropped it to the ground.

Four finger went into Gregory’s mouth to the knuckle, lips easily spreading to accommodate them, and Gregory pulled them out again coated in saliva. Three, he put back in, closing his eyes, the movement of his tongue visible as a puckering and bulging of his cheeks. With his other hand, Gregory ineptly undid the button on his pants, lowering them, squatting to take them off, spreading his legs as he did. Yermolai pressed at his tip, coaxing out early release with which to lubricate his hand before beginning to pump at his cock. Gregory pulled his underwear down as well, squatting once more, placing them aside. Getting down to his knees on the hard tile floor, Gregory turned so that his firm buttocks faced the camera, scars evident even on the pale skin that never saw the light of day, row upon row of lines down the backs of his legs, all old and healed and white as snow against the brown undertone of his undamaged flesh. Still sucking at his finger, Gregory used his off hand to neatly, deliberately, slowly fold his shirt, pants and underwear and place them to the side. Yermolai’s breath skipped at even the slight delay. He no longer had the least doubt what was coming next but seeing it was going to be a whole world of gratification.

Leaning forward, Gregory settled the weight of his torso onto his left elbow, forehead to the floor, thrusting his butt up, perfectly placed beneath the camera. He spread his legs wide, affording Yermolai a groan-inducing view of his puckered, pink asshole and the back of his ball sack, all freshly shaved. There was still a smudge of soap from when Gregory had done the job, presumably during his recent shower. Torture ensued as Gregory’s back and shoulders shifted as he continued to work his fingers in his mouth as if they could orgasm if the blow job was good enough.

“You’re such a tease,” murmured Yermolai, wide eyes glued to the screen.

Gregory answered with a chuckle and reached around with his hand, finger dripping with spit. Self-control strained, his back tensed, shoulders driving downwards, Yermolai could make out a faint, breathy noise, irresistible, as Gregory gasped for each breath. He stopped, fingers resting momentarily on the smooth skin between his testes and his hole.

“I...” Gregory’s voice cracked as his breathing became louder, his back arching, muscles rippling at each inhalation, only to settle back as he exhaled. “I have not touched myself...in two weeks...because it was impossible to do so...without thinking of you.” And he pressed a finger into himself with a shuddering cry of pleasure.

Groaning, Yermolai had to let himself go to keep from coming immediately. Hand cupped around himself, he switched to kneading his balls as his dick twitched in protest at his neglect. He would hold off his orgasm if it fucking killed him. Gregory was giving him a gift, and Yermolai had the utmost respect for the sacrifices Gregory had made on Yermolai’s behalf, at Yermolai’s request.

Gently, so gently, Gregory rubbed at himself, allowing just the tip of his finger in, drawing it out again, pushing it in deeper, massaging, out slowly, deeper still, until he was in himself to the knuckle, his other fingers splayed against his butt cheek. His whole form strained towards the contact, hips rising to meet his hand at each tiny thrust, and the sounds that came from his mouth, wet and guttural and desperate, were everything that Yermolai had dreamed of and so much more, even destroyed as they were by the transmission.

“Not good enough,” Yermolai said, knowing that his breathing gave the lie to his words.

Shifting, Gregory looked back at the camera, his face red and flushed, spittle dripping from one corner of his mouth, eyes bright and rimmed with tears, and gave Yermolai a smile before concentrating and pushing a second finger inside himself. Moments later, he followed with a third, spreading himself open so that Yermolai could just see the darkness within, surrounding skin red, interior wet and incredibly ready for Yermolai’s aching cock. With the expertise of long practice and intimate familiarity with his own body, Gregory thrust into himself, striking the spot that drew desperate moans from him every time. Yermolai couldn’t hold himself off any longer, he spit into his hand, imagining the wetness from Gregory’s mouth, and didn’t so much draw his hand up and down as he did fuck his own grip, hips thrusting as if he were inside Gregory, as if he were the one forcing those moans out as he pounded his dick into Gregory’s sensitive prostate.

“I want to fuck you,” Yermolai whispered desperately. “Are you imagining that’s me inside you?”

“Yes,” moaned Gregory, his voice going fuzzy. “Please! Fuck me, Praskovya, fuck me...” he broke off to moan, a sound pulled almost involuntarily from somewhere deep inside him. “I...need...”

“On your back,” ordered Yermolai. He knew exactly what Gregory needed. Rolling over instantly, Gregory’s back arched as his hips drove down into his still-working fingers. Face up, Yermolai had a magnificent, raking view of the most fucking gorgeous thing he’d ever seen. Every inch of Gregory’s skin was flushed red except for the white lines made by the scars. His pale hair glistened with sweat, clinging to his damp forehead and falling limply into his unfocused, gleaming eyes. He rode his hand as if his life depended on it, and his other hand quivered on his belly, inches from the weeping tip of his straining cock. His hand twitched towards it.

“No,” Yermolai reprimanded him.

“I...won’t...” gasped Gregory. His eyes strained shut, tears leaking out. The first wave of over–the-top pleasure drew a long, whining moan from Yermolai that Gregory echoed a moment later. Forcing his eyes open, he watched Gregory’s left hand dig into his stomach so hard the skin strained around it. “Please,” he whispered urgently, legs scraping at the tiles. Come spurted into Yermolai’s hand.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Yermolai didn’t recognize his own voice, husky and broken and obviously Russian, but he couldn’t control his accent, couldn’t control himself at all. “You’re such a good boy for me, Gregory.”

Gregory drew his nails across his skin, leaving angry red lines across the old white ones. The hand he used to stroke inside himself never stopped, his body never ceased trying to push it further into him.

“Please!” Gregory’s voice broke, and he repeated the word increasingly incoherently.

“The most beautiful...the most perfect...” The words dragged from Yermolai as the last of his come hit the floor. “Do it, Gregory.” His voice fell to a throaty whisper as pleasure and fatigue in equal parts tried to drag his eyes away from the screen. “Come for me.”

There was no answer, only a long groan of relief and gratification as Gregory wrapped his left hand around his cock and stroked hard, thrusting into the grip with his hips, with his shoulders, with his entire fucking body. Resting his shoulders on his desk, holding his head up with difficulty, Yermolai watched Gregory orgasm almost immediately, convulsively, body straining upwards, a moan straining through his lips, so hoarse it sounded like Gregory could barely breathe. Thick clumps of semen formed sparkling white lines on Gregory’s belly, tangled in his chest hair, fell on the wristbands, the only thing he wore. He collapsed onto the tiles, chest heaving at each breath, hand falling limply from his penis, his other hand coming from his anus with a wet sound.

“Thank you,” Gregory finally managed, gasping into the silence. Yermolai laughed, harder and harder, tears squeezing from his eyes. Gregory was thanking _him_. _Gregory_ was thanking _him_! “That’s a beautiful sound. You’re the most beautiful man...”

When laughter finally stopped shaking Yermolai’s shoulders, he opened his eyes. Gregory was standing, toweling himself off with a cloth from his backpack. Cleaned up, Gregory got dressed, skin still flushed, eyes still liquid and out of focus. Packing the bag again, he slung it over his shoulder, and Yermolai thought that was that, until Gregory set it down again moments later in the hallway just outside the bathroom door. Jaw dropping, Yermolai watched Gregory go to the janitors closet, take out the cleaning things, and once more clean the entire bathroom. It took half an hour this time, longer than usual, and Gregory was clearly being especially thorough. When he was done, once more, he put everything away.

Outside the bathroom door, he retrieved his backpack...and went back inside the bathroom. Yermolai’s breath caught and his dick, already partially hard from watching the familiar cleaning ritual, flopped and twitched. Kneeling on the tiles once more, Gregory opened his bag and withdrew a container of lube and a long silicon dildo in a muted tan color. He gave the camera a bright smile.

“Ready for the rest of my apology?”

Too stunned and aroused to answer, Yermolai finally managed a broken, “Yes.”

The ritual was established – Gregory stripped, folded his clothes, lay himself on the ground, this time on his back with his legs hitched up and wide apart, the kind of pose only someone extremely athletic could hope to maintain for any length of time. As Yermolai wondered vaguely how he was going to get through this again when he couldn’t touch the man, Gregory anointed the toy with lube, coating it with quick strokes, and immediately began to press it inside of himself. It was not a small dildo – in fact it was disturbingly large, coincidentally similar in size to Yermolai, long and definitely thicker than the three fingers that Gregory had used before. Despite the first time – the warm up, Yermolai thought with a gasping chuckle – it still took work for Gregory to get the thing started into his anus, and despite the lube, he drove it deeper and deeper by infinitesimal degrees, a groan forcing through clenched teeth hinting at pain mixing with pleasure. He didn’t stop until he’d taken the whole thing. Yermolai’s breath whistled between his teeth, and wordlessly he began to stroke himself. Gregory didn’t move at first, waiting for his own breathing to calm, and when it had done so slightly, he spoke.

“Is it like you would be?” he asked plaintively. “I guessed...I wanted...”

“How could it be?” panted Yermolai disdainfully. “I’m hot and alive...I twitch inside you...I moisten your insides with my come...” As Yermolai spoke, Gregory drew the toy out and pushed it back in, much harder and faster than the first time, using a combination of his hand gripping the end of the dildo and the floor to control the tempo. “...I enfold you with me until I’m all around you, inside and out...”

“Can we do that?” Gregory begged. “I want to be with you, only with you.” Not waiting for permission, Gregory masturbated, hand around his dick, dildo driving in and out.

“...hips pounding into your ass...balls slapping into your skin...” Yermolai couldn’t watch any more, the pleasure too intense, the need too great, the fantasy that filled his head too vivid. He was going to come again, that fast, that soon. He forced the words out as he curled over himself. “...again…and again…and fucking again...” His orgasm wrecked him, words dissolving into gasps. “...until...you...scream...my fucking...name...”

“I’m...this is...so good...I’m...yours...” Just from the sounds, he knew Gregory was coming too. “I’m yours, Yermolai! Yours!”

For an instant, Yermolai didn’t breathe at all.

“You know.” Yermolai lifted his head and forced his eyes to focus on the screen. Gregory was sprawled on the floor, a spectacular, sweaty, come-stained mess, breathing like he’d forgotten how, limbs limp, dildo slowly being forced out of his ass by his contracting muscles. “How long have you known?”

“I always knew,” Gregory whispered between breaths. “From the first time I heard your voice.” His voice gained strength. He sounded, of all things, confused. “I didn’t know you didn’t...you thought I didn’t...?” Fumbling at the tiles with his fingers, Gregory drew the dildo out the rest of the way and sat up.

“You knew,” Yermolai said flatly. His emotions were a tangled mess, pleasure and desire and something he still thought might be love warring with unjustifiable anger and betrayal. He’d suspected that Gregory might know, had dismissed the idea whenever it occurred to him, and somehow the confirmation of it made him furious. “You knew the whole time.”

“You thought I didn’t know,” whispered Gregory in amazement. He lowered his eyes to the tiles. “Are you...” he licked his lips, hands wringing, fingers tracing the outer edge of his leather cuffs. “Are you angry at me?”

Yermolai turned the PA off. He didn’t trust himself to answer. He had no idea what the answer _was_. He was angry, he was _furious_ , but he couldn’t make sense of his emotional response. He was too wrung out. Until that moment, the evening had been perfect, everything he had dreamed of and so much more. With a single word, Gregory had driven home all of the issues with what they were doing, the inappropriateness of the relationship, the amount of trouble that Gregory would get in were their liaisons ever to come to light, the insanity of pursuing such a course of behavior when they’d never had a single conversation about boundaries, about protection, about succor, about safety. The silence stretched out, and Yermolai watched, unable to tear himself away. Gregory sat on the ground, looking spent and sad, his shoulders slumping by inches as time passed and Yermolai didn’t answer. Finally, Gregory dug listlessly in his bag, toweled himself off, got dressed yet again, yet again set the backpack by the door and went down the hall to the janitor’s closet.

What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

Gregory was cleaning the fucking bathroom again.

Tears streamed down Gregory’s face as he worked. Yermolai shuddered and groaned and hoped to fucking God that what he was feeling was not the start of a third erection. He couldn’t do that, not now, not after those first two, not during what he was watching. This unspeakably beautiful man wanted to be his, and Yermolai couldn’t even make himself get on the PA and tell him to leave the fucking bathroom alone. He knew that he had just hurt Gregory badly, he knew he was being unfair, he knew that Gregory deserved to be held and petted and cosseted for being every wet dream Yermolai had ever had wrapped into one absolutely _perfect_ person. He knew that if he turned on the PA system and told him to stop, Gregory wouldn’t, and would likely do something ridiculous that forced him to clean the room for the fourth time in one evening. Because that was the kind of sub that Gregory was, and they hadn’t set a single fucking rule to prevent it from happening, and Yermolai had let things go on this way for three damn months. Watching Gregory work, Yermolai felt nauseous, his libido finally figuring out that perhaps now wasn’t the time for arousal. Mind reeling, something occurred to him, something he should have wondered the very first time he saw Gregory naked.

Where had all those scars come from?

Gregory was absolutely perfect, yet in the pit of Yermolai’s stomach, as the last lingering quivers of his second orgasm receded, the conviction solidified suddenly that their…thing…could not continue. It was destroying both of their abilities to function on a day to day basis, interfering with their jobs, probably messing with Yermolai’s recovery, and clearly demolishing anything like a reasonable schedule for Gregory, who can’t have been getting more than four or five hours of sleep a night at this point. And there Gregory stood, cleaning up his own semen and sweat from the floor of the bathroom, having to scrub things twice and three times because his tears kept landing on them, willing and obedient, ready to do anything Yermolai asked, just because he asked. Gregory was 37. This wasn’t his first time in a relationship like this. Someone had given him those scars, cut his chest, shoulders, back, thighs, buttocks, face, dozens, maybe hundreds of times. Ruthlessly, Yermolai suppressed the desperate desire to go to the center and offer the man aftercare. That was not the relationship they had. They didn’t _have_ a relationship. They had a game, a game that had been carried much too far, and it was up to Yermolai to decide when that game was at an end. It was well past midnight on a work night, he was exhausted, spent, soaked with sweat, body aching from pleasure, yearning for more.

Tapping on the keyboard, he cut off his view of the cameras.

Now.

Now was the time to end that game. He’d be the one to make sure this didn’t hurt either of them, didn’t hurt Gregory, any more. Someone had already hurt him so much.

It was the first evening in three months he didn’t watch Gregory until he left the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I've got a bit more written than this but I probably won't have time to post it today. :)

**Author's Note:**

> More to come...I've got about 20,000 words of this story written, and an outline for the rest (I'd guess it'll be around 50k?) but I can't really say when I'll finish it...I've got so much on my plate right now, but I wanted to get this up for a variety of reasons, so screw it, now it's up.


End file.
